


Decalescence

by Esaleyon, FelicityKitten



Series: Fate Amenable to Change [4]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anarchism, Angst, Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/F, Fire Nation Lore (Avatar), Fire Nation Royal Family, Firebending & Firebenders, Found Family, Healing from trauma, Lesbian Azula (Avatar), Lore and Lesbians the two important Ls, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Lotus, RedLotus!Korra, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esaleyon/pseuds/Esaleyon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityKitten/pseuds/FelicityKitten
Summary: 172 AG, Azula finally witnesses the fall of the empire that took away her youth, but peace still eludes her. Upon returning home, she finds her granddaughter overcome by a strange affliction—a flame that stutters quietly, threatening to immolate her from within. For all her newfound power, not even the Avatar can help.Determined not to fail her family again, Azula takes Asami on a desperate search for aid—but does anyone have the answer they so urgently need?
Relationships: Azula & Asami Sato, Azula (Avatar) & Yasuko Sato, Azula (Avatar)/Original Female Character(s), Korra/Asami Sato, Lin Beifong/Yasuko Sato, P'Li & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Fate Amenable to Change [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940404
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	Decalescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FelicityKitten: If you're familiar with our stories, maybe you noticed that me and Esaleyon are very supportive of each other's works, beta-ing back and forth, writing monster comments and whatnot. So, we decided to merge our fics into a series and co-write a one-shot, around 2-3k. Well... that one didn't quite go according to plan. But the result is worth it, if I do say so myself :) Hope you'll enjoy this, it was super fun to write!
> 
> Esaleyon: And if you love it / hate it / want to roast us alive for it, here’s the obligatory plea: drop us a comment!
> 
> **Trigger warnings for this chapter: depictions of PTSD, past childhood trauma, depictions of violence (past), parent death**

She traces the scar along her collarbone, a jagged, ugly mass that extends from her breast all the way across her shoulder and neck, a paint splatter rendered in glossy, mottled red. To think, a year ago she was heir to a fortune, a member of high society, alone and desperately unhappy.

Hazy light pours across the balcony, the sun’s rays just skating the edges of their bed. She runs her finger along the dark ridges on her lover’s stomach, following the kite-like pattern that stretches from her thighs all the way to her neck and shoulders. Korra mumbles in her sleep and rolls closer, unconsciously seeking her touch. It still feels surreal to Asami, the idea that this being who can raise continents and crush nations on a whim is also the awkward girl who showers her with affection at every opportunity.

She’s still adjusting to the quiet domesticity of Shu Jing, the slow pace a welcome contrast to the rush of Republic City. Baba’s invitation had been hard to refuse, and while she was reluctant at first to take the time away, Korra’s enthusiasm had a way of overriding her anxieties—now she’s so happy that she agreed. It’s barely been four months since their embrace on the tarmac outside Caldera, but a life without Korra beside her is now impossible to imagine, scarcely more than a distant memory.

When they parted last spring, Korra promised her that it would only be a matter of a couple of months until they were reunited.

Two months became nearly a year as Korra found herself embroiled in yet another revolution, culminating in a battle for the fate of not one but _two_ worlds. Asami could only watch from a distance, her heart spiking with every telegraph and news bulletin. Every night she dreamt of taking an airship and heading south, only to reluctantly remember her own duties and obligations to the city her father had helped destroy. She advocated for the Southern Water Tribe’s cause wherever she could, spurred on by her faith in the unbreakable girl she’d fallen so deeply in love with.

All too aware of how analgesic it could be, she threw herself back into her work determined to undo her father’s harm. The process of transforming Future Industries into a collective owned and run by its workers was tenuous at best, always a hair’s breadth from collapse. Her worries grew as the vultures circled overhead, gathering to feast on the precarity—one Iknik Blackstone Varrick in particular. Should the oily shipping magnate succeed in wresting control of the company’s assets, Republic City’s newfound peace could shatter.

Asami tried her hardest to keep her thoughts rational, treating it as if she were working out an issue with some new invention—if she could only sketch out everything in detail, the clean lines would form a solution, guiding her steps with infallible accuracy.

Her heart, however, was an illegible mess of scribbles and pen jabs, bloody and sensitive. It kept screaming despite her attempts to silence it, the quiet hurt eating away at her, robbing her days of all colour and warmth. She missed Korra with an ache so profound it seemed like the depth of it would swallow her whole if she let herself feel it fully. It terrified her like nothing else—if Asami was so desperate now, what would she do if (she had to push down the insistent _‘or rather, when’_ ) she lost her, too?

Ten months passed, and against all odds Korra finally came back, both the same and somehow _more_. Asami felt Vaatu’s presence within Korra even before she recounted her desperate battle with Unalaq over Republic City. Korra has vanquished a tension Asami hadn’t even noticed was there, replaced by a newfound balance in her spirit—her gait more lively and carefree, full of confidence. At times, Asami catches her staring with unrestrained adoration and just a hint of mischief before she’s scooped up in her muscular arms, laughing as Korra spins her around, kissing her senseless.

Her happy memory is tempered when Asami remembers the way Korra’s face fell when she saw the bags below Asami’s eyes and the pallor of her skin. She brushed off Korra’s concern, chalking it up to long hours spent working. They haven’t spoken of it since, even though Asami frequently catches Korra’s worried glances, the way she bites her lip when Asami turns down food or is overcome with fatigue in the middle of a spar.

Still, something is amiss, she can feel it.

Sometimes when they’re tangled together, the afterglow a fine coat over them along with the layer of sweat, Asami feels her lover’s core radiating to her and the touch feels electrically charged, almost. She wouldn’t be surprised in the least—Korra usually inspires such sensations in her—but there’s an odd element to it, as if her perception of temperature were heightened. For a moment, her forehead feels burning hot, her insides alight with a strange heat she can’t name—uncomfortable, as if not fitting inside her skin, wishing to be let out.

A memory, nearly forgotten, flickers back to life—her baba’s harsh rasp softened by a gentleness reserved only for her—speaking of the warmth Asami just discovered for the first time, urging her to not be afraid of that part of herself.

Then another—the smell of singed fabric that seems to permeate everything in the long months after. Tears scald her face and she feels a presence within, dark and flickering—a rush of intoxicating power beyond her control, itching to be let out and to _ruin_. Terrified by her thoughts, her small hands drift unconsciously to her stomach, as if trying to extinguish what was hidden inside her.

Years later at her mother’s shrine, she sits in the receding glow of incense, taking in the scent of agarwood and fire lilies. Tentatively, Asami reaches out with her finger and tries to guide the orange ember back to a flame—not even sure what needs to be done, going by instinct alone—she breathes in and pulls her fingers inwards, beckoning the fire closer to her. The muted orange glow flares to bright yellow, radiating heat back as if wanting to meet her. She does, flinching when she burns her fingertip.

_There’s always an element of hurt when it comes to fire._

And then at last, she sees herself standing before her father in the smoking wreckage of their factory below the mansion, hate in his eyes as he raises the mech’s arm and fires. Her arm stretches out before her as she takes the bolt of electricity, feeling the rush of it along her qì as if it were always hers to command, instinct routing it _in, down, up, out_. The world seems to freeze around her, her father looking at her with fear and disgust, Korra’s panic turned to utter shock.

During the months following his disappearance, Asami couldn’t help but wonder if he recoiled because she refused to stand beside him, or because he recognized her defense for what it truly was—what she herself could no longer hide from.

_Firebender._

Even concealed and repressed, flame always finds a way to destroy, to render everything to scattered ash. It’s taken so much from her already… it’s only a matter of time before it returns to take the rest. Bitterness and hurt burn with each breath she takes, poisoning her spirit.

She swallows the bile rising in the back of her throat and closes her eyes, willing the images away. Despite her fatigue, sleep eludes her. She shifts uncomfortably on sweaty sheets, her body heavy and flushed, heart racing, fire dancing in an unregulated, distorted way.

Resigning herself to consciousness, she slips out of bed and quietly makes her way out of their apartments. Her thoughts scatter along the corridors ahead of her, slipping through the shadows cast by the early morning light. Even stripped of most of its finery, Piandao’s castle maintains a sort of austere stateliness—its dark cherrywood walls coated in a thin film of dust, bare save for a handful of paintings. She stops before the largest of them, its subjects clear even in the dim light.

Two women stand behind a young girl, no older than fifteen. The taller of the two looks down at the girl with an easy grin, familiar bright green eyes filled with fondness, a lazy smirk pulling at her lips. She wears no armour, only a coarse indigo haori and hakama over a plain kimono. One calloused hand rests casually on the tachi at her hip, the other winding around the waist of her companion.

In contrast to the swordmaster's almost laid-back appearance, everything about the shorter woman radiates sharpness, from the strands of dark hair framing her elegant jawline to the black bone armor she wears. She gazes forward, golden eyes piercing even in the dim hallway. The barest hint of a smirk plays on her lips, and she grips the shoulder of the girl in a gesture that is equal parts possessive and protective.

Asami feels a sick twisting in her stomach when she looks at the girl—if not for the antiquated dress and the slight roundness of her face, she could easily be mistaken for a teenage version of herself. The girl slouches sideways with an easy confidence, her sharp glance almost teasing. She’s every inch her mothers’ daughter.

Suddenly it’s all too much. Asami stumbles back and hits the wall, she slumps to the floor as tears sting her eyes, threatening to overflow. Out of habit, she fights them back—crying still feels unnatural after years of distancing herself from every unbecoming feeling and expression.

Suddenly, footsteps approach her. The newcomer reveals herself with a flame in her palm, illuminating an unmistakable tall figure, her sharp features stern and unreadable, a cautious spark in her russet eyes.

Asami jumps into practiced poise—she still doesn’t know what to make of Korra’s adoptive mother. It’s not even the matter of her deadly ability—Asami had no problem bonding with Nazra; she found the girl’s awkward rambling and lovesick, spaced out smiles around Tsomo hopelessly endearing.

P’Li’s features soften. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude on your private moment.”

The gesture soothes Asami a bit. “It’s fine. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Not a rare occurrence these days,” she replies, the corners of her mouth creasing in a sad smile.

Feeling exposed, Asami pulls her arms tighter to her body. The older woman’s gaze just barely brushes over her, yet she seems to take in every vulnerability.

She remains silent, eyeing the woman with suspicion. P’Li pays it no mind, looking up to the source of Asami’s distress.

“You have your mother’s eyes—that same spark of ingenuity,” she comments, eyes skipping from the portrait to Asami. That surprises her—people usually comment on her flawless skin or voluminous dark hair, never seeing beyond the pretty front. For so long, Asami has been convinced that along with her name, it’s all that really matters about her.

“She was brilliant,” Asami sighs, her sight growing blurry once again. Mercifully, P’Li looks elsewhere, pretending to observe the painting in more detail. Something about the image—the flame in her palm so close to her mother’s face—makes Asami flinch and turn away.

P’Li notices and steps back, giving Asami some much-needed space.

Still, an invisible weight is choking her as she inhales shakily in an effort to calm herself. Her diaphragm betrays her, constricting and pushing against the air in a frantic reflex.

“Breathe into your stomach first,” P’Li interjects, her next breath measured and audible.

“One… two… three. Now hold it.”

She tries to repeat after her, fighting against the constricting pressure in her core. Asami clenches her teeth and tries again, over and over, until at last she has herself in check.

“Thanks.”

She can’t quite manage more yet. P’Li watches her, one eyebrow quirked—not malicious or mocking, only curious.

“Korra wasn’t wrong to be so worried about you.”

“I know,” she says, perhaps with more edge than necessary. She hates knowing her girlfriend is troubled over her. After everything that happened, Korra deserves some rest—Asami can handle herself.

“There’s nothing physically wrong with me, she checked already. I’m sure I’ll be fine in no time.” She pulls her lips into a pleasant smile, unable to shake a deeply ingrained impulse to deflect.

The edge of P’Li’s mouth tilts upward, as if she were attempting to conceal a mirthless smirk. “Wilfully misinterpreting my words to avoid addressing the problem? You really are her granddaughter.”

Asami bristles, and the older woman’s face falls for a moment.

“I’m sorry. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.” 

Despite her impressive stature, P’Li is anything but imposing at the moment - closer to the warm presence she radiates when she’s around Nazra or Korra. Asami has noticed how around her daughters, her harsh edges blur in affection. Every time she sees them together, the memory of her own mother cuts through her, an unbearable sting.

Still, P’Li isn’t to blame for her conflicted feelings, and she deserves to know as much. Asami braces herself, hoping that speaking about it won’t tear down her carefully constructed facade.

“I know you mean well. I just… I don't know what's happening to me. Things are better than ever, so why am I still in pain?” Her words are almost pleading.

P’Li’s eyes glaze over with the sorrow of a distant memory. “Unfortunately for us, pain is rarely so rational. We try to make sense of it, to assign meaning to it, but sometimes, we must simply accept it for what it is.”

“The deepest wounds may close on the surface, but still continue to fester and spread their poison.”

It’s her usual way of giving advice—well-meaning but elliptical, so very much like Zaheer. Asami supposes that after so many years together, sharing such mannerisms is to be expected.

She doesn’t know how to answer. Logically, it’s hard to disagree, but what it implies—to tear the scar open and expose the core of the problem in all its sensitivity—makes Asami shudder.

“I understand that I'm not your first choice when it comes to confiding. But what you’re going through… don’t try to shoulder it in silence.”

Asami wants to protest. It’s nothing major really, just an occasional odd fever or sleepless night. She’s been through worse; the years after her mother’s death taught her to withstand insurmountable pressure, turning her into a diamond in the process—on first glance, spectacular and brilliant, but one well-aimed hit and she’d break into pieces.

Why set herself up for the chance of that happening?

She leans back on the wall, the world around her spinning again—heat rushes to her head, no doubt signalling the return of her fever. Her core pulls in on itself, wound tight and burning, as if a hot coal were eating through her. She feels oversensitive, the brush of her nightgown unbearably irritating. Her bones turn leaden, weariness dragging her down.

“Thank you,” she answers, not looking at P’Li. “I’ll try to follow that advice.”

The woman’s sight on her feels like an unspoken question—Asami pretends not to notice.

“I should go back to sleep,” she murmurs.

Her arm stretching out tentatively, P'Li opens her mouth, but on seeing Asami’s discomfort she swallows her words.

“Please be careful with yourself,” she says instead, her expression filled with lingering concern.

Asami throws her a nervous glance before turning back towards the shelter of her room, her feet brushing with difficulty through the corridor. When she steps inside, her heart swells at the sight of Korra’s figure wriggling in her sleep, reaching for her lover.

She remembers how she first reacted to the revelation of Korra’s true identity, the heartbreak and betrayal. How ironic, that she’s deceiving her in the same way. Come what may, Korra deserves to know.

She collapses into the sheets and pulls her close, even as Korra’s body heat threatens to overwhelm her. Asami fears it will be another night spent staring at the ceiling, but fatigue soon overrides everything else and drags her into a restless sleep.

* * *

__

_Rain pelts the window as thunder rolls through the night outside. Asami shudders, pressing into her mother’s side under the covers. She flinches as there’s another crash, this time not from outside. Asami gives a startled cry as her mother shoots up in bed. Her eyes scan the darkened room and her arms tense, causing Asami to jolt in surprise. Silently shifting off the bed, she presses a finger to her lips, her other hand reaching for something beside her bedstand._

_The sounds from the hall grow louder and more distinct, Asami can make out hushed voices past the screen. Mama turns to her with wide eyes. “Behind the bed, hide, now!”_

_Asami scrambles down and pushes her cheek to the floor. She hears the door crash open, the sound of sharp boots on wood. “She’s in here!” A man’s voice, low and gruff._

_There’s a cry of pain as the man crashes through a chair and drops to the ground. She catches sight of him through the gap underneath the bed, murder in his eyes as he claws at the knife embedded in his throat. She watches in horror as his eyes glaze over—after a while, his shudders cease and his body goes slack._

_The sounds mesh together—more footsteps, the roar of flame, an agonized cry cut short by gasping— _'it wasn’t mom,'_ Asami repeats to herself, _'it must have been someone else'_ —and then silence as something heavy thuds to the ground. _

_A different voice, high and reedy. “Come on! They’ll have called the cops by now, we have to find the girl and get out of here!”_

_She stays frozen, terrified to breathe. Her lungs burn for air, and she hears the crackle of flame as it spreads across the wall to the canopy of the bed._

_The footsteps recede, and Asami peers out from behind the bed. She can make out the outlines of four bodies through the smoke—the man she had seen die, and behind him two more figures dressed in black and slumped at awkward angles, knives protruding from their bodies. And then, on the ground in front of the dresser…_

_Asami dashes from safety and rushes towards her mother’s form. She’s on her side, facing away from her, and she’s not moving. Asami grips her by the shoulder and pulls, trying to roll her over, but stops when she sees the blackened burn extending across her mother’s neck, her mouth open and her eyes wide and unfocused. She screams and lets go, falling backwards before scrambling over to her again. Desperate, Asami fights back the violent shake of her hands as she fumbles, looking for heartbeat, breathing, something, _anything_._

_She clutches at her mother’s limp arm, wailing until her throat grows hoarse. Terror and anguish blossom within her chest and radiate outwards along her limbs. They grow and grow, a suffocating presence that sets every nerve in her body on fire as it spreads beyond her and latches onto the flames surrounding her. Her attention turned inwards, Asami hardly notices as they surge from a low crackling yellow into a turbulent red roar. The room is soon engulfed—her ears popping as the flames whip around her, loud enough to drown out her screams. She clings still to her mother’s body, seeing and hearing nothing but an overpowering sound of static and the orange light radiating behind her closed eyes._

_The din around her fades away, as if her consciousness is slipping beyond it, the events just seared into her memory too much to comprehend. A numb, gaping hole opens in her chest, but at least it means the pain is fading. She wishes she’d disappear along with it._

_“Asami. Asami, wake up.”_

_A new voice intrudes, startling her. Unearthly yet strangely familiar, it’s tones overlap—a clean, almost commanding ring coupled with a low rumbling echo—soothing sky and reassuring ground beneath her feet, both human and otherworldly. But it’s not _hers_ , so what could it matter?_

_She wants to be angry at the voice—she was so close to just forgetting, not having to feel anymore._

_Waves of heat bring her back to the place she desperately wants to erase from her memory—they whip her face, making her eyes sting with soot. She’s suddenly very aware that she can’t breathe through her nose. She searches her clothes for a handkerchief, only now noticing the deep indents left by her fingernails in the meat of her palms. As she looks at those crimson half-moons, it takes her a moment to realize that they should in fact hurt._

_“Asami. I promise everything will be okay if you just wake up,” the layered voice again, rising higher in urgency, now almost sonorous._

_“She’s gone. How can it ever be okay?” she chokes between sobs, another stream of tears dripping down her chin._

_“Trust me… I’ve felt just like you do,” it replies, somehow more vulnerable now that its words are laced with pain._

_“But I’m here for you… I love you,” the slight croakiness of the tone makes some distant memory click into place—Asami is sure she knows this person. The realization eludes her, teetering just on the edge of her consciousness._

_“It hurts,” she clutches at her chest, awfully cold and searing hot at the same time._

_“I know. But I can’t help you if you don’t come back to me.”_

__Come back… _those words, spoken like a promise before she headed off to face her duties to the world._

 __Korra.

* * *

She snaps her eyes open to see two pools of light—bright golden flickering to cold white and then darkening into dim amber—they widen in recognition and then fade into familiar, beloved blue. For a moment, Asami’s chest constricts with panic, startled by the unearthly presence and terrified by the thought that her nightmare continues, now taunting her with Korra of all people. She tries to sit up, but her girlfriend puts her hands gently on her shoulders, guiding her back to bed.

“It’s okay, Asami. You’re safe.”

That touch, more than anything, grounds her back in reality. Asami reaches out and pulls Korra close, her body shaking with lingering panic and sobs.

Her lover caresses her shoulders, warm and real, whispering endearments. Asami buries her fingers in her short hair and guides Korra’s mouth to meet hers in a messy, desperate kiss, salty with tears.

There’s a shadow of movement at the edge of her vision and the orange light dims. Asami rapidly sits up on the bed, uncomfortable knowing they’re no longer alone.

Next to the door stands an easily recognizable pair. Rui stands back while baba steps into the room, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. She swipes her hand—the lingering patches of flame flare blue before vanishing in curls of smoke. She walks over, carelessly kicking aside a pile of ash. 

Azula kneels next to the bed, taking care not to startle her. She feels baba’s eyes scan over her, calculating, looking for injuries. Her lips are pushed into a dangerous thin line, her shoulders tight.

“Avatar, explain.”

Korra nervously glances between the two of them, her back tensing—Asami knows Korra is still wary around Azula, fully aware of what she’s capable of when it comes to protecting her granddaughter.

Asami’s eyes flit to her and then back to Korra, trying to latch onto facts to make sense of. “What happened?”

“You had a nightmare,” Korra replies, voice tinged with panic. “I didn’t know how to pull you out of it. You were in so much pain...”

She cups Asami’s face, her eyebrows tight with worry. Her hands tremble and Asami covers them with her own, accepting the gesture of comfort and offering one in return.

“What about the fire, though?” a gnawing suspicion makes her blood run cold. The nightmare of her loss—an incandescent outburst of grief—ending only for Asami to find their room burning? 

Korra shifts her gaze away—Asami understands immediately.

“Hey, Asami! It’s okay. I handled it,” Korra tries to soothe her, but all Asami can think of is her lover vulnerable in her sleep, helpless against the viciousness within her—dormant for all these years, awakening only to try and take once more from her. As if it were an innate trait of hers, so masterfully concealed by her beautiful face.

Korra’s lips are moving, forming words, but the sound disappears in the monotone ringing in her ears. Ice pricks across the skin of her fingers, the blood rushing from her limbs. Her breath staggers in her chest, then halts as if colliding with something—solid and immovable, but fluid and undulating at the same time. It grows heavier and hotter, ground down by invisible pressure—the heat shoots up into her head, making her break out in sweat; bubbles like molten rock form in her core, threatening to burst outward. She squeezes her eyes shut, but even her eyelids feel unbearably hot.

"It burns," she moans, the pain at least dulling her unsettling thoughts.

Fluid sloshes gently as Korra opens her water skin, enveloping her hands as it begins to pulse with a turquoise glow. She presses the water to Asami’s stomach, and she lets out an involuntary sigh of relief as it makes contact with her skin. Several moments pass, and then Asami feels something lurch deep within her, as if rising up to push the water away.

"Stop," Asami hisses out.

Korra pulls away, a conflicted expression on her features. "I… I don’t know what just happened, it’s almost like there’s some sort of block in your qì path. It won't let me pass through." 

"Meaning what, exactly?" Baba interjects—the sharpness of her tone could fool anyone, but Asami knows that the feared head of the Kitsunebi is terrified, grasping for any way to regain control. 

“I don’t know,” Korra’s voice wavers and for a moment, she’s no longer an all-powerful being, but just a young woman scared for her lover’s life.

“I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s… it’s sort of like when Amon used his bloodbending to qìblock, but more extreme somehow—it’s almost like a steep hole, or a well without a bottom—sorry, I don’t know how to describe it...”

The rising urgency of Korra’s tone causes a wave of dread to wash over Asami—this is Korra, a spiritual master in her own right, backed by the guidance of her adoptive family and her many teachers, and with the knowledge of a thousand past lives to draw from. If even she can’t tell what’s happening, then who?

Azula starts pacing back and forth, hands clenched at her sides. She looks down, biting her lip—Asami knows this expression well, it’s the one her baba gets whenever she’s furiously working on a problem—a habit they happen to share. Her gaze turns distant for a moment before she snaps back to Korra.

“Asami, we’re leaving. Avatar, help her get dressed, something warm.” Baba’s voice is cutting and leaves no room for debate, as direct and unyielding as the lightning she wields.

“Wait, what? Going where?” Korra yelps. The look Azula gives her is positively scathing.

“The Sun Warriors. Hopefully they will prove less useless than you have been.” Azula sneers—even so, Asami can see the panic in her eyes, churning like wildfire. Korra visibly flinches, stung by the reproach.

Before either girl can respond, Azula turns sharply on her heel and exits the room, snapping the screen shut behind her.

Korra quickly works herself into a frenzy, rushing back and forth, fretting with Asami’s clothes, asking her what she would prefer to wear—clearly not paying attention, asking three times about the same garment.

Pushing through the heaviness in her limbs, Asami reaches out and catches her hand, stopping her from running to the other side of the room _again._

“Korra… you know that you being worried sick doesn’t really help me, right?”

Her girlfriend locks sight with her, irises glistening with anxiety and unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, Asami…” she clasps her hot hands in her own, clammy with sweat.

“I just hate standing around doing nothing. After I fused with Vaatu, I felt like I could do anything. But now I just feel weak and completely useless. Azula was right calling me that,” her shoulders slump as if pulled down by the weight of the world.

“What good is having their power within me if I can’t even save the one person I love most?” she clenches her fists—the metal door handle distorts and curtains lift, moved by a gust of wind. 

“We will figure it out, _akuluk_. Now all I’m asking you to do is trust me. I can handle myself, remember?” Asami desperately tries to look reassuring.

“You always say that,” Korra gives her a familiar lopsided grin, now tinted with sadness. “But you’re not exactly the best at admitting when you need help.”

Her late night conversation with P’Li flashes in Asami’s mind and she feels uncomfortably torn. She should follow her advice, but right now, they don’t have time for this.

“Don’t worry,” she squeezes her hand, adding a smile that aches on her burning skin. “When it comes to this, baba knows better than anyone.” 

She speaks with conviction she wishes she could feel. Her grandmother is indeed the strongest person Asami knows—who else is better suited for a firebending crisis? Surely she will find the answer.

She circles over those thoughts, repeating them like a mantra, letting them fill up her mind so they can carry her along—and insistently pushes down the bothersome _’but what if she doesn’t?’_ lurking in the far depths of her mind.

* * *

The wind bites against their faces, its howl punctuated only by their labored breaths in the thin, frigid air. Hannya’s dark form undulates below them as she winds her way through the night. They are now high enough that the world curves away beneath them—Azula can see the dim glow of Republic City off to their right, little more than a thumb-sized orange splotch on the far horizon.

Azula feels Asami shudder against her and pulls her closer, forcing the heat of her core through the layers of leather between them to keep the girl warm. Asami is hunched and so very thin, Azula’s jaw clenches as she remembers the weeks spent by her bedside in that decrepit temple, listening to each strained, wheezing breath and wondering if it would be her sapling’s last.

She takes that resurgent dread and buries it, fixing her gaze on the sky ahead. This is just another problem she will solve, one more impossible task for someone long used to them by now. She's spent her whole life at war, kicking and punching her way through everything the world threw at her—spitting on the faces of any who dared oppose her, claiming back her own life piece by agonizing piece. But losing Asami—Azula knows that if that happens, she’ll break, and this time she won’t come back from it. 

She’s come close before—she very nearly lost herself in pain and fury after Yasuko was killed. Her murderers paid in a thousand ways, she made sure of it, but no revenge, no bloodshed could bring her back. Rui snatched her back from the edge, reminding her through her own grief that they still had a six-year-old granddaughter to protect, even if only from afar. But now… if she fails, not even her lover will be able to save her.

Azula laughs bitterly to herself, coils of rage and grief twisting in her gut. In her long life she has accomplished nearly everything she sought out to achieve, and lost nearly everyone she has ever cared about in the process. 

She still remembers with perfect clarity the hurt hidden behind determination in Mai’s eyes at the Boiling Rock, words carefully chosen to cut deeper than any knife. Alone in prison after the comet, hair shaved and wrists rubbed raw from iron shackles, her days bled together as she wondered just how much of it had been true.

Born lucky, a prodigy who wielded rare fire with uncanny grace and inhuman precision. Monstrous, even—she remembers being six, bursting with pride at the little blue flame in her palm, running happily to her mother only to be met with a forced smile and fearful eyes; the affection she so desperately wanted showered on her weakling of a brother instead. She learned to be cold and uncaring, to excise weakness, her destiny a reign of terror crowned by a flaming headpiece—in retrospect, being chained to a grate in despair was the best outcome she could’ve hoped for.

It took her three years of total solitude, of matted hair and filthy clothes stained by soot and grime, to finally, _finally_ understand. How foolish, how stupid to think this was as small as any one person or family. It was the _crown_ that did this to her, that stole her mother, her uncle and brother, her lover, her best friend, her father, her freedom and very nearly her sanity. 

Her father had used every means at his disposal to mold her into his perfect weapon, the crown justifying his monstrosity. For him, for it, she had sacrificed everything. All that remained in the end were black silk strands of hair and a hand sliced open by shards of a broken mirror, lungs that burned after hours spent screaming in misery with no one left to care.

She laughed herself sick that night, the irony giving her a sense of twisted amusement—she’d find it all brilliant in its ruthlessness, had it not been at her expense. She resolved then to end it, to see that crown melted to slag and the power behind it destroyed as thoroughly as it had once vanquished her.

It would be fifty four years to the day before she achieved her wish. She stood with her lover on a rooftop overlooking the Caldera and watched the revolt they had helped orchestrate sweep through the city, all the way to the steps of the royal palace. But even in triumph, she felt only bitterness. In that moment, she was neither conqueror nor revolutionary, merely a battered old woman robbed of too much.

She remembers the betrayal in her brother’s eyes when he realized she’d turned his own daughter against him, the seething resentment making him look so very much like Ozai as he knelt in defeat. He pulled the five-pronged crown from his topknot, letting it clatter to the stone below.

As he was escorted out, he threw her one last disdainful glance over his shoulder. “Finally got what you wanted, eh Lala?” 

(It appeared that being ungracious in defeat was something of a family trait.)

He hasn’t spoken a single word to her since, preferring to hole himself up with his memories in that dusty old house on Ember Island. With Izumi’s abdication the crown is now little more than a relic, a museum display to serve as both reminder and warning to future generations. Zuko may have brought the Fire Nation peace, but Izumi gave it freedom. She wonders if he’s finally proud of his daughter.

Azula never forgave—no one showed her that courtesy after all, not even when she was barely fourteen, her life sacrificed before it could ever become her own. She found it all too easy to lapse into melancholy, stewing in her causticity—the steady presence of the swordmaster by her side a necessary counterpoise.

And then there was Yasuko.

It took three years of begging and pleading—endless reassurances that she would never become her mother, or worse, her father—before Azula finally caved to Rui’s desire for a child. Holding Yasuko for the first time, she was struck by intense feelings of discomfort, of wrongness, the moment only served to magnify every doubt and uncertainty she had about her ability to be a parent. She adored her daughter more than life itself, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch her.

Azula was never absent—she made sure that her daughter’s every material need was attended to, she read to her every night without fail, and she peppered her constantly with reminders that she loved her, that she was proud of her. Still, she couldn’t help but hate herself for her inability to provide her with the casual affection Rui gave so freely. To her intense relief, Yasuko seemed to understand, never begrudging her mother that distance.

Growing up, her daughter was more like her than either of them cared to admit—bold and cunning, possessing a penetrating wit and brilliance to match her own. At times, it was as if her mother’s voice rose from the carefully banished parts of her mind, mocking her in its distortion: _‘Look at her, if you dare, and recognize yourself in what you see… and love her, if you can stand it.’_

Azula couldn’t hide her relief when her daughter turned out to be a nonbender. She was filled with a fearsome sort of pride when Yasuko later revealed a proclivity for knives, much to her sword-wielding mother's aggravation. Azula would never dare admit it, but in watching her daughter grow and come into her own, she had found a strange kind of peace.

Even so, Yasuko never failed to surprise—and sometimes exasperate. Never in a hundred lifetimes did Azula think her child would end up hopelessly in love with _Toph Beifong’s daughter_ of all people. Then again, it’s not like she could fault Yasuko for having an indisputable preference for capable, unabashedly foul-mouthed women.

The similarities between Lin and Rui ended there, though. Where Rui possessed natural warmth and nonchalance, not afraid to tease Azula or stand her ground when it came to it, Lin was stubborn and quick-tempered, eager to make a name for herself outside her mother’s influence—and failing spectacularly, of course. Her relationship with Yasuko was one of highs and lows—more than once Azula considered reminding the police puppet that her daughter was the luckiest break she’d ever catch, and she would be wise to treat her as such.

“Let it be,” Rui proved once again to be a grounding presence. “They’re young and in love—if it’s meant to last, they’ll fuck up a hundred times and learn how to fix it, just like we did.”

Still, as much as the name Beifong left a sour aftertaste in her mouth, Azula would bite through it if her daughter was happy… but then came that last, disastrous fight and the consequences of her ill-advised rebound with a man not even worthy of standing in her presence.

Azula was aghast when Yasuko revealed that she was with child, and that she not only intended to keep it, but had agreed to marry the fool. Admittedly, her problem was not so much with the former as it was with the latter—as far as she was concerned, Yasuko’s choice was fueled by a misguided sense of obligation and no small amount of spite. Their picture perfect marriage was doomed from the very beginning—Azula felt no sympathy for Hiroshi, only animus for robbing her daughter of a chance at true happiness. When it came to him, she would be grateful for one thing only—Asami.

The persistently curious, troublesome toddler brought back a missing spark of joy into Yasuko’s eyes, and despite the fraught circumstances around her arrival, she rapidly captured Azula’s heart as well. As the years passed, Azula found something almost approaching contentment. She had Rui, and Yasuko, and Asami, and it was everything she never knew she wanted.

But eventually, her daughter’s dissatisfaction became impossible to conceal. In other circumstances, Azula would have taken immense pleasure watching Yasuko come to her senses and see Hiroshi for the consolation prize he had always been. She couldn’t resist throwing a taunt here and there to help the process along, but refrained once Yasuko tearfully begged her to stop—he was a good father to Asami and a pleasant enough partner, for better or worse. (It seemed the proficiency for lies was another trait they shared. Under different circumstances, Azula would have been impressed.)

And perhaps she should have played the role of corruptor once again—had their marriage failed a bit sooner, her daughter might still live. Yasuko would have been angry, no doubt, maybe she’d even come to hate her, but she would have been spared from the filth that besmirched the name of Agni with their very existence… 

Azula pulls back from her musing, the familiar void in her chest threatening to devour her. When Yasuko died, the agony and grief brought her nearly to the brink of annihilation.

Nothing could dull the pain—not the vicious, bitter satisfaction when Lin told her that Yasuko had managed to take four of her seven attackers to the grave with her; not the screams of the remaining three when she found them and made sure they understood that her daughter's knives would have been mercy. All she had left once she’d screamed herself hoarse was to swear on her life to never, ever let something like that happen again.

A dozing Asami cuddles closer—Azula has to suppress a flinch, her unease at the physical contact warring with the welcome reassurance that Asami is still here, still alive. 

How perplexing… Azula is used to her mere presence inspiring terror in those around her, yet of all people, Asami looks to _her_ for comfort, calls her ‘baba’ with affection, and feels safe enough in her presence to fall asleep against her. 

She will tear heaven and earth asunder if she has to, but she won’t fail her. Not again.

* * *

They touch down on the top of the main temple just as the sun breaks the eastern horizon. The Sun Warriors scatter at the sight of Hannya, Azula dismounts before helping a shaking Asami down. The Chief approaches her, clearly outraged at the interruption of their morning rituals.

She pretends not to notice, bowing deep in formal greeting. “Honored Chief, forgive our intrusion, but it is a matter of utmost urgency. I come here with my granddaughter, Asami. She is ill, and we humbly request your aid.”

The Chief looks at her appraisingly. “As you are known to us and a disciple of the Masters, we forgive you your transgression. What ails her such that you would come to us for aid?”

Azula pauses, looking to Asami. She knows that she must be exceedingly careful with what she says next. “She is unable to access her fire, yet it still burns within her. The conflict threatens her health and her life—we seek an audience with the Masters in the hope that they will free her flame and prevent it from consuming her from within.”

The last bit was admittedly poetic license, but she couldn’t see how it would hurt to _overstate_ the problem. As she finishes, she keeps her eyes cast down, her head bent in a respectful half-bow.

The Chief looks at Asami with a certain degree of wariness, but nods. “Very well, we will allow her to partake in the Eternal Flame, she may carry it to the Masters and request an audience.”

Asami turns to her, eyes wide with panic, and Azula pushes down the curse itching on her tongue, bracing herself for what will inevitably come next. “I apologize, it seems I wasn’t clear when I informed you that she is currently _unable_ to access her fire.”

The Chief remains unmoved. “If she cannot carry the flame, the Masters will not see her. Surely you must know this.”

Azula clenches her jaw and forces herself not to react. She is well aware of tradition—she had gambled that her status as Hannya’s companion would be enough for them to make an exception, but it appears she has no such luck.

Her temper, so carefully kept in check, begins to rise to the surface. “My granddaughter may die without their help, and ability to produce flame or no, she is still of the royal line. Surely the Masters will understand.”

The Chief’s features flash in indignation, and Azula knows she has misstepped. “Remember your place, Azula! Our traditions are older than your line, they are older than your entire civilization! If she cannot carry the flame, she will not be seen.”

Azula breathes deeply, willing herself not to react in anger. She turns to Asami, and sees the fear and despair in her eyes. Before she can utter a word, Asami steps forward.

“Show me the flame. I will try.”

The Chief steps aside, ushering her to the fire burning in the archway beyond. Azula steps forcefully to her side, and Asami clutches her hand.

Azula leans in, her voice too low for the Sun Warriors around them to overhear. “Remember your breath, control your fear. Reach out with your qì, and it will come to you.”

Asami gives her a shaky nod, her eyes wide. Azula notes with alarm that Asami is clearly having difficulty remaining upright—she wavers a bit before widening her stance, attempting to root herself in the ground. Asami gives her one last uncertain look, biting her lip, her furrowed brow unable to mask the fear in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she reaches out a hand to the roaring yellow flames.

At first Azula thinks she has it—the flames sense Asami’s approach and reach out to her, surrounding her hand. Searching for weak spots and cracks in her control, they flicker as they dance around her fingers—curious and hesitant at the same time, as if mirroring her. Asami inhales shakily and they seem to follow her breath, drawing closer, almost tasting her skin.

Then, Asami’s eyes go wide, her expression distant and paralyzed with horror. She flinches involuntarily, and suddenly the flames grow wild and uncontrolled, no longer _just_ brushing her skin—she wrenches back her hand as they begin to burn. Asami yelps and tumbles backwards, Azula barely twisting in time to catch her. She cradles her hand, now flushed an angry red.

Asami looks up at her, eyes glistening with tears that Azula knows have nothing to do with the pain.

Azula guides her to lean on the wall next to the archway before wheeling on the Chief. “It’s obvious the state she’s in, she _must_ see the Masters. You saw how the flames responded, she’s clearly a firebender. So step aside,” she snarls, “or I will step _through_.”

The Chief is impassive, standing with all the unbendable will of the stone behind him. “Don’t overestimate your good graces, Azula, Daughter of Ozai. Our traditions are not up for debate, you will submit to them or lose our favor for good.”

Azula’s palms flare cerulean and she lunges at the Chief, seizing him by the beads around his neck. The remaining Sun Warriors take defensive stances, surrounding them on all sides.

Heedless of the flame at his throat, the Chief stares up at her. “Taking my life won’t help you achieve what you came here for—you and I both know that if you take her to them in this condition, she will die.”

Azula’s vision turns blinding white and she wants nothing more than to kill him where he stands. It may not solve anything, but it’ll certainly make her feel better—anything to fight against her worst nightmare baring its rotten teeth to taunt and mock her once again; to wrench back control over a situation hopelessly slipping through her fingers. She’s pulling her hand back to strike when she hears a voice behind her.

“Please, baba… let’s just go.”

In her fury she had forgotten Asami’s presence behind her—a wave of shame overtakes her. She releases the Chief, taking vindictive pleasure in watching him stumble backwards. As if heeding Asami’s call, Hannya touches down on the temple, the warriors scattering to escape her reach.

Azula helps a shaken Asami walk over, gently lifting her back onto Hannya’s neck. She doesn’t spare so much as a glance backward and in one last petty act of defiance, she forgoes the customary bow in farewell, keeping her back rigid as she walks away. She climbs up behind her granddaughter and holds her tight as she urges Hannya back into the air.

As the island fades into the distance behind them, Azula’s fury ebbs, replaced by a cold dread that she knows could all too easily give way into unrestrained panic. It takes all of her willpower to keep it at bay, she has to remind herself that Asami is too weakened to fly Hannya the remainder of the way to Shu Jing. Her sapling sags against her, and Azula can’t help but mirror her defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Asami murmurs, curling in tighter on herself.

“You have nothing to apologize for, we don’t need them. We will fix this, you’re going to be fine.”

Asami doesn’t respond, avoiding her eyes.

All the while, an old line repeats itself over and over in her mind.

_Azula always lies._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please comment!


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